


looking at my years like a martyrdom

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: the sleeping night [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst and Feels, Game Spoilers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Somnus!Noctis, and my bahamut salt is showing, bahamut has no lines but he's in here, episode ardyn? whats that lol, or the other way around i guess, poor nocto, the bros get like 1 line each
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 17:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17430014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Because it was a reminder that he was no longer simply Noctis, son of King Regis and Crown Prince of Lucis, but also the thirteenth incarnation of Somnus Lucis Caelum — the coward king who couldn’t save his brother.He isn't the Chosen by chance.





	looking at my years like a martyrdom

**Author's Note:**

> _*inhales*_  
>  I had this idea because Somnus and Noctis basically share the same face and all that jazz. (Not to mention, Noctis uses the Blade of the Mystic [Somnus] _hella lot._ Which totally isn’t suspicious at all. Plus, there's those fan theories about noctoboi and somnus)
> 
> And then Episode Ardyn trailer happened, and those 3 seconds of footage kinda… yeah.  
> So before the anime/dlc arrives and punts this into the sun, I’m scrambling to get all this Somnus!Noctis out of my system.
> 
> no beta we die like regis

“Oh.”

Standing before the throne, Noctis looked up toward the Crystal, its ethereal tendrils of magic seeping into the darkness and lighting up what little he could see. If he squinted his eyes, he thought he could see Bahamut hidden away within the blinding void of its too sharp edges and hard lines. Or perhaps, the vision was still seared fresh in the eyes of his mind, from witnessing the Draconian’s Revelation.

Perhaps it was the thundering echo of a god’s voice, as it forced memories and promises turned broken vows into his head. Perhaps it was the power of his birthright magnified by the power of twelve kings and their twelve glaives that pierced through his flesh and bones, that sang out in a delirious symphony from his veins. Perhaps it was the overwhelming grief and anguish that fell from his eyes and gripped his hands with ice and fire, the same that had kept him from ending his brother’s misery.

Perhaps it was the utter look of betrayal Ardyn had looked upon him with, the curses and promises of retribution that had been screamed at him, as he had turned his back on his brother’s tomb in Angelgard, and all the nights thereafter that haunted him as ghosts whispered into his ears; if only he had seen the signs sooner, if he had implored his brother to talk to him, if he had not mistaken the dark of his eyes as mere fatigue.

Noctis choked back the grief clawing its way through his chest. He flexed his fingers, delved into the comfort of familiar magic as he searched for the familiar thrum of power, the curve and edge he once held so many reigns ago. His hands gripped onto the cool metal and he _pulled_ , the Blade of the Mystic materializing in a flourish of crystals and light. As reassuring as it should be to hold onto a piece of history that had been long forgotten, he didn’t expect the surge of heartache that came with looking upon his weapon. His first weapon.

Because it was a reminder that he was no longer simply Noctis, son of King Regis and Crown Prince of Lucis, but also the thirteenth incarnation of Somnus Lucis Caelum — the coward king who couldn’t save his brother. It was a reminder that for nearly two thousand years, Bahamut had laid claim on his soul, determined that he fulfill the prophecy one way or another, and had trapped it within his realm. Had broken it and reforged it within his iron fist, released it into the living only to crush it once again to rebuild from shattered fragments, each cycle stronger than the last. Until now, finally, he was deemed worthy enough as a boy barely scratching the surface of adulthood.

And behind the power of the twelve royal arms belonging to each lifetime he had reigned, he could feel Bahamut’s favor bolstering his magic, as well as the covenants of the other Astrals — carried on from his past lives, he supposed. This was it, then. His final chance. Bahamut had made it firmly known he would not get another.

He let his Blade fall back into the aether, falling onto his knees before the Crystal.

He had long accepted his fate, his sacrifice to be made as the Chosen. He gladly welcomed it, even, if he could offer his life as atonement for his wavering heart at the expense of his brother’s torment and the world’s damnation. One life for the world, an easy trade. But it didn’t stop the silent sting of his tears and the bleeding ache in his heart, or the cruel reunion that would end in both their ruins.

 

 

Bahamut was restless, so eager that he set their fates into fast forward, practically salivating with anticipation for their tragedy, that Noctis’ death sentence came in the form of a peace treaty. That the Chancellor accompanying the Niflheim’s emperor was no other than Ardyn — Izunia, he now called himself, no longer fit to bear the Caelum name. Ironic, in that this peace would end in blood, Noctis thought, yet fitting in that their souls would finally rest.

Noctis was to be married, according to the terms, to one Lunafreya. He thought it would have been nice, to live out his life as husband to such a lovely woman, but he denied himself anymore than that, dared not imagine a future he would not have. Did not deserve.

Yet outside of his marriage, he had no other duties. Noctis pulled his father aside, asked if there was nothing else he could do and when affirmed there was none, insisted that he sit at his father’s side in the Council meetings, to at least help with the delegations and the compromises that would surely rise up from Niflheim’s outrageous demands. He didn’t miss the surprise on his father’s face, to suddenly see his son who had once made every opportunity and excuse to skip the royal conferences, now taking the initiative and asking for a seat in the Council. Noctis still hated the stiffness and formalities and drabble, but he had twelve lifetimes of experience under his belt, each incarnation with their different ideals and approaches; surely, they could utilize his knowledge.

But Regis, dear Regis with all his fatherly pride and love, merely patted his son on the shoulder saying, “Only focus on your darling bride-to-be, son.”

And despite the carefully crafted mask the King had perfected, Noctis did not miss the tiny cracks, the slightest waver in his heartfelt smile, that alluded to some hidden storm underneath all that kingly visage. He did not spend twelve Lucian reigns in ignorance; he knew how to spy a lie — as kind and gentle as it was — just as well as he knew how to spin one. His father knew something. And refused to reveal it.

Noctis would be a hypocrite to call his father out on it. He had a secret as well, one he would hide until Bahamut’s revelation passed. So he called upon his inner moody teen, shrugged off the warm hand upon his shoulder as he cocked his hip to the side, eyes rolling in mild annoyance, and waved his old man off. “Yeah, yeah. Dunno why I even bothered asking,” he said, his tone not entirely unkind, softening the bite of his words. But it stung Noctis still.

 

 

He left the wedding plans to Ignis. Noctis knew enough of the old walls, navigating secret passages and hidden tunnels that spread throughout the Citadel and underneath Insomnia itself. It was simple enough to slip through the gates and his father’s Wall, shrouding himself with a camouflage of Regis’ magic to avoid detection as he passed through. Darkness made for the best companion, his own black hair and attire melting into the night that he trudged through, with no one to notice him in his late night excursions.

As private as it was, the training room was inadequate; he would need more room. A battle between two ancients was not kind and neat, and it would not mold itself to fit in any particular space. The outdoor training grounds offered freedom but were open to all sorts of eyes. Seeing Noctis with an Armiger of twelve royal arms and the power of gods would surely raise alarms, at the very least, and he was determined to keep his end of the prophecy privy to himself.

In the danger and cover of night, away from the protection of his father’s magic and Insomnia’s bright lights, daemons made for the perfect target practice. The sonorous chimes of his weapons echoed through the air, and he felt the cut of his magic burn from within his veins.

He had but a few weeks to master his powers. And Bahamut had made it known he was tired of waiting. Even the statues of the old kings that guarded the gates seemed to look upon him with scrutiny, as he passed under their stone-cold gazes each night. It was odd, to feel such a weighted stare from ancient depictions of _himself,_ to look up at these carved guardians that protected the kingdom. He could feel power emanating from them, magic similar to the Crystal and his own.

Noctis also felt a hollowness in his chest, and he wondered if he could even say he had a soul. It had been shattered so many times, abused and groomed into these different faces and lives. He remembered each memory so vividly, knew faces of lovers lost and enemies slain, recognized the emotions that were tethered to each fragment. Yet, he felt so distant to them. He understood but did not feel — an outsider to his own life. Perhaps that was why Bahamut had kept his memories under lock and key, kept each of his incarnation ignorant to the previous lives they led, until the god decided Noctis would be the Chosen and had allowed it all to spill forth only now.

He doubted he was even whole, suspecting the magic that slept within the statues were slivers of his own soul.

 

 

Regis wanted him gone. Not in the way of an exasperated father kicking his son out of the house, but with a strange sense of urgency and concern. His father had insisted that Noctis be off to Altissia before the Niflheim convoy arrived, wanted his son on the road the very morning. Gladio and Ignis had poked fun at the Prince, saying the King was probably worried that his son's words or demeanor may trigger something in the Niflheim diplomats, causing them to call off the treaty. Noctis had easily rolled with it, swatting away their teasing remarks with a bit of dry humor himself, but he knew there was something that snapped at his father's heels, that cornered the king into a dark space.

Somehow, Noctis managed to convince his father to allow him a few extra hours before their departure, just enough time to trade passing steps with Niflheim. “Just wanna see the Niffs in person. What's so bad about sneaking a look at the guy we're making this treaty with?” Noctis reasoned, making sure his expression was set with indifference, that his shrug looked lazy and relaxed.

Because he was anything but. His stomach tightened in anxiety and dread, barely keeping down the simple coffee and toast he had for breakfast while skipping out on the heartier eggs and meats, much to Ignis’ disapproval. With each passing minute, he felt his heart rate increase with them, until it was a jackhammer in his ears and a pulsing ache behind his eyes.

He stood, hands clasped tightly behind his back, right at his father's side where he sat on the throne to receive the emperor and his chancellor. And Noctis, allowing himself just a bit of final weakness, spared himself a glance at the noble King, ignoring the announcement of Niflheim's arrival. Regis held his head high, back straight and shoulders set, eyes staring forward with determination; despite the drain of the Crystal and his ailing body, he held every inch of dignity and royalty, kept an air of something _absolute._ Noctis wanted to beam with pride for his own father, for remaining unwavering and regal despite everything the world had pressed upon him, for being a king with such a finesse that Noctis — Somnus, Crepera, Tonitrus, and all his other incarnations — could not even hold a candle to. Regis certainly lived up to his name.

Now it was Somnus’ turn, to bring their final sleep.

He burned his father's noble visage into the backs of his eyelids, lest he feel the burn of tears instead. He would have liked to watch his father throughout his reign. And though Noctis would not live past this hour, he managed to find a sense of comfort in knowing he could save this fine king, ensure his continued crown. Lucis would still need one, after all, once Noctis played his part.

And he could feel the steel gaze of Bahamut, from the Crystal resting just behind them, as the old god _ripped_ the curtains back.

As Ardyn stepped forth. And the magic, the Crystal surged beneath Noctis’ skin, wanted to rend itself out of his flesh and bones to lunge itself at the Scourge, to wipe its filthy existence from the Star. But Noctis — but _Somnus_ only wanted to weep, to fall on his knees and wrap his arms around his brother and offer a hundred pleas. To return to their days spent in innocent youth bounding across the wheat fields and chasing after insects, to cold winters spent huddled before the fireplace under a shared fleece and tired smiles, to starry nights and drawing out long-forgotten constellations as they sprawled out across the grass. To their simple days when they were just brothers, playing make-believe of kings and knights, and not baring bloody blades at each other's necks to determine the fate of humanity — because the gods were bored of happy endings and wanted to watch a tragedy instead.

It took everything in him to just _breathe,_ and he knew his fragile mask was quickly crumbling. He wished he was the Rogue once more, because at least then he would have a physical mask to hide his torment behind.

Ardyn bowed, seemingly unaware of the stage Bahamut had placed them on, that the damned Draconian was watching from the front row seats of the Crystal. Until his amber eyes briefly met Noctis, and there was a flash of confusion and recognition and fury all in one. Noctis knew it was uncanny, how his present appearance was almost the mirror image of Somnus back in his youth. He almost wished Ardyn knew right then and there that this prince was in fact, Somnus himself, and not some miraculous twist of Lucian genetics.

But Ardyn reigned in his emotions just as quickly as they had shown. Nothing amiss. Of course Bahamut would make Noctis suffer the whole way through.

No more delaying then.

Noctis let the masquerade fall, let his mask crack and shatter under the weight of a god's cruelty, as he placed a hand on his father's shoulder. As his father looked up and must have seen the sudden exhaustion and remorse that plagued his son's eyes and recognized the stillness of a man resigned to death. Noctis didn't meet his father's face, let alone his gaze, however, fearing that it would break whatever was left of his heart. He placed his palm above the King's hand, felt the sharp edges of the Ring against his skin.

“Walk tall, dad.” He offered a smile, and he hoped it didn't look too broken.

He would have liked to say more, but the burn of the covenants prodded him on. Bahamut was not the only one eager to watch their tragedy unfold, it seemed.

It was a simple tug of magic, and the Ring obeyed and wrapped itself around his finger, thirsty for a new host to feed upon. Regis didn't even notice, silent and distraught as he was at his son's sudden turn. What would happen next, Noctis thought, would only make things worse then.

He pulled away.

Noctis descended from the dais, and he could feel the accusing stares all around him. This was out of line, out of court manners, and of course just leave it to the errant Prince to ruin everything —

Noctis called upon his royal arms. One by one they creeped into reality, each taking a crystalline skeleton as they phased around him in a harmony of echoes and chimes — the Sword of the Wise, the Axe, the Bow… Until finally, he descended the final steps, flourishing his first sword of the Mystic in his hand. He wondered what his father thought, seeing the weapons of ancient kings that his son never even cared to hear about now surrounding him in a maelstrom of raw power.

He wondered what future he could have had, what sort of adventures he and his friends could have gone on. What kind of recipes would Ignis cook up? What new cheesy novel would hook itself into Gladio? What sorts of pictures would Prompto take?

What sort of expressions did they have at this very moment, watching their dear friend cloaked in power unimaginable, oblivious that this would be the last image they have of him?

“Hello, big brother.” Noctis raised his blade toward Ardyn, cutting through the what-ifs of a nonexistent future. No more hopes, no more doubts.

And Ardyn, or at least what remained of him, looked absolutely euphoric, salivating at the prospect of wrapping his hands into his traitorous brother's heart.

“Hello, little brother.” His voice held all the fondness they once shared, but the hidden nuances only revealed venom and malice as black as the Scourge that dripped down his skin. At least, his next words were spat with pure scorn and deadly heat. Noctis found it more bearable this way, when feigned softness didn't pierce his heart as unadulterated hate did. “Come to erase me from history once more, dear Somnus?”

 _No,_ he wanted to cry out, _I never meant to, brother. I never wanted you to suffer as you did._ He would have taken his place, his crucifixion and his damnation, if he could. But he couldn't. There was no going back, only forward, even if their one path led to oblivion. Now, he could only offer respite, the final rest he had denied Ardyn two millennia ago, all because his own heart was weak with misery and unwilling to grant his brother that one mercy.

“No.”

No longer wavering. No longer faltering.

“This time, we go together.”

**Author's Note:**

> okya I know there are 13 royal arms and I only mentioned 12 bc I don't wanna kill reggie ok and Idk if the king needs to be ded for the successor to use their weapon but let's just say they do so there's my excuse 
> 
> Anyway. Somnus!Noctis, my dudes. 
> 
> Thanks for suffering with me.


End file.
